The treaty hall reeks of old stone and dying embers. Torchlight flickers across marble columns as your father's voice drones on, listing your bloodline like inventory. You stand perfectly still in silk robes that suddenly feel too thin, too exposed.
Queen Kael lounges on the dais like a predator mid-feast. Her golden eyes haven't left you since you entered. Claws tap against her throne's armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wolfkin warriors lining the walls watch with the same hungry patience.
Varen leans close to whisper something in her ear. The queen's lips curve into a smile that shows too many teeth. Your kingdom lost the war three months ago. This marriage is the price tag on peace. You're not a prince anymore. You're reparations.
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